


The Replacement

by ZabbieQ



Category: Starlight Express - Phillips/Stilgoe/Webber
Genre: F/M, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:42:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27760954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZabbieQ/pseuds/ZabbieQ
Summary: [Ice show inspired] Electra had only hired Volta the freezer truck because he needed a stylist after his old one was stolen away by another engine. There was no way he would ever ask a servant to race with him - especially one with a diesel tank.
Relationships: Electra/Volta (Starlight Express)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	The Replacement

**Author's Note:**

> I'm finally posting this ice-show fic here. (If you want to see the different designs of the ice costume, check out Belle's Domain.) Bumblebeeya/choo-choo-musical on tumblr has done some lovely fanart for my OC Lacey, and I hope you'll take a moment to check out the rest of Bumblebeeya's work!

As Electra stood on the side of the snow-covered starting line, awaiting the practice race, he was sure of two facts. First, he was easily the best looking of the six prototypes present. Second, he would do anything, short of chopping off his own designer skates, to insure that his so-called prototype brother, Amber, would not be the one to win the practice trial today.

Out of all the prototypes, Amber had managed to be the one thorn which Electra could not pluck from his well-crafted side. His other four siblings usually kept to themselves, focusing instead on training for the coveted spot of being the next superstar challenger. Amber, however, made a point of trying to get inside everyone's heads to ensure that he would be the victor. That smug snake in crimson paint had infected Electra's money truck with a virus, nearly causing Electra to lose half his estate. He had wirelessly hacked into Electra's GPS so that the yellow engine would get lost heading to a banquet hosted by their sponsors. Worse of all, Amber had stolen Barbara, the barbershop-lounge car who had been Electra's previous stylist, for his own train.

Electra did not care what he had to do. Amber would never be the superstar challenger; he would never impress their creators and get to compete in the World Championship Railroad Race next March, and he would most certainly never win a stunning victory against the reigning champion, Greaseball the diesel engine.

However, there was only one flaw in Electra's plan: that bubble-headed carriage with whom he was supposed to be racing had yet to show up.

"Just perfect," the yellow locomotive growled, glaring at the frosted horizon toward the coach yard. Typical Lacey. He checked his computer clock. Only fifteen minutes until the race started. With mounting impatience he quickly scanned the area for any sign of the Pullman's presence.

Everything looked like some kind of cheerful Christmas card with frosted evergreens on either side of the surrounding the tracks which led back into the yard. The looping race course ran beneath a series of snow-covered trussed gantries and their electric wires, which swayed in the slight winter breeze. The carriage partners of the other racers huddled close to their engines' couplings in an effort to receive the head-end power (H.E.P.) necessary to heat their vacant cabins. Meanwhile, the silver forms of the different components and lesser servants skated to and fro, fulfilling last-minute tasks of their locomotives. Other rolling stock milled lazily outside the enclosed race course, waiting to watch the upcoming spectacle of mechanical prowess.

No sign of that pink powder puff of a first-class carriage whom the electric committee had vehemently insisted Electra pull — but Electra _did_ spot some of those committee members taking their seats to witness the performances of the young engines their money had brought to life.

Electra had half a mind to leave the track and go search for that frilly little fool, but rich engines did not perform their own errands. That was what his components were for.

Electra turned to his crew of metallic trucks. His lesser servants — his chef, his photographer, and his replacement stylist — were standing a little ways off, keeping a reverent distance from their employer. However, it was the three silver components next to him — the trucks who carried essential pieces of his computer — who he trusted to have the competence for this job.

Wrench, the repair truck, stood next to him and was in the process of scribbling notes on her clipboard. Electra could hear the humming of the machinery inside her: no doubt she had opened a program on her piece of Electra's computer and was in the process of monitoring something essential to Electra's victory. Beside her stood her lover, Krupp, the truck who carried Electra's prized collection of armaments. Krupp dutifully held Electra's racing helmet, all the while carefully scanning the race track and studying the other prototypes and their crews for suspicious activity. Since it was possible that Electra might need either one in the near future, that made him turn to his third component, Purse the money truck.

"Go find Lacey," he ordered.

The short man nodded, tapping the brim of his striped hat, and pirouetted on his skate blade before he glided out of the closed-off track. Electra did not mind sending him; ever since Wrench had reinforced his firewall, it was safe to use Purse for errands again. As a former revenue car from some line which Electra had never visited, the armored truck was skilled in self-defense to protect his contents (in this case, Electra's petty cash) from robbery, and so Electra did not even give a passing thought to the stacks of bills inside the older truck as Purse disappeared behind a patch of snow-covered evergreens.

"Always something with that sleeper, isn't it?" Electra growled aloud.

Wrench looked up from her clipboard. "If you're unsatisfied with Pinky, I can always make a few alterations," she said hopefully, with that familiar mad glint in her brown eyes which had a way of making Electra's stomach knot.

"Forget it," the locomotive said automatically, stepping away from his mechanic.

Wrench lowered the clipboard as she turned toward him. "You haven't even heard my idea, darling," she returned. Electra could hear the excitement in her electronic voice, like bubbling water escaping the lid of a boiling pot.

Wrench was a short, fair-skinned woman decked in the silver-with-yellow-streaks livery of Electra's entourage; her metal was molded to resemble a sleek jumpsuit which might have shown off what little curves she possessed if not for the armor-like pieces of metal on her chest and limbs. Her hair (which Electra disinterestedly recalled was brown and cropped short) was hidden under a reflective cowl like the other members of his staff, though hers was topped by a brimmed hat with yellow-and-black caution stripes. Her belt sported a large yellow E which marked her as exclusively in Electra's employ. She had been there since Electra had taken his first breath, but even after eight months of his short life, the engine was not completely used to her eccentric private projects.

"What do you know about nitrous oxide?" she grinned, touching his yellow arm.

Electra quirked an elegantly plucked eyebrow. "That rocket propellant those puny motor cars put inside their tanks for road races?"

"Which I can put on Pinky," Wrench replied, her smile widening, "and work it so that you can connect to it for a quick boost."

"Because I get my power from a fuel tank like a diesel engine instead of electric lines," he replied dryly, glancing up at the overhanging wires above his head. "I'm sure _that_ will impress the committee," he added, nodding toward the older engines in the audience.

Wrench removed her hand. "You're no fun."

Electra turned to Krupp. "My health is in the hands of a mad scientist."

"Who is a better mechanic than what dear Amber has," Wrench retorted, nodding to the bulky Bolt who stood beside the crimson figure on the other side of the enclosed track. "You know anyone else who can change a broken wheel while simultaneously debugging lines of code at record speed? If you can, I'd like to see them try," she added, returning to her clipboard with a sniff.

"Maybe I can train Joule," Electra cracked, referring to his latest employee who was off running errands, but he soon found himself once again glancing down the track which Purse had taken. His computer clock now read ten minutes until race time.

"What is taking that sleeper so long?" he demanded, looking to Krupp.

The tall metallic truck gave a shrug, his angular face stern. "Lacey is probably hitched to a switch engine who can't handle the snow," he offered.

"A _diesel_ switch engine," Electra sneered.

Krupp's stoic eyes suddenly looked slightly apologetic. "Some diesels are a necessary evil, I'm afraid," he replied with a knowing nod. "Switch engines. Snow-plow cars." He looked over his shoulder and then added in an undertone, " _Freezer trucks_."

Electra followed his gaze to the gaggle of lower servants who had come to serve their employer. Like the components, they wore the silver livery with large yellow E's on their belts, but none of them belonged to Electra's mainframe: among them were the dining car who held his energy drinks, power bars, and low-fat snacks, the baggage car who always had a camera on hand to take publicity photos, and Electra's latest stylist who had replaced the traitorous Barbara, Volta the freezer truck.

As Electra's gaze fell upon the refrigerator car, Volta turned. Their eyes met for a brief moment before the freezer quickly looked away, lowering her cowled head.

At least she knew her place.

"Well, she's good at her job, isn't she?" Electra said to Krupp, gesturing toward his _chic_ new wig, a black base of Afro-like hair topped with yellow spikes of a Mohawk.

The only reason he had a diesel truck on his payroll was because Purse had been the one to interview applicants in Electra's place, and the money truck had been impressed with Volta's portfolio of wigs and paint patterns. It had been Volta who had designed his new hairstyle which had turned the heads of the rolling stock present and had caused Electra's siblings — including Amber — to shoot him glares of undeniable envy. That alone made her worthy enough of her pay, even with her oil tank.

And she was easy on the eyes, he noted as his gaze lingered on her pale profile — not that he would ever be attracted to a diesel truck, but he would have never hired an ugly one either.

Electra was about to look away when he suddenly noticed a new addition to his stylist's ensemble. He frowned.

"What is that _thing_ on her head?" he asked, wrinkling his well-crafted nose. A bendable rod looped around the back of Volta's metallic cowl and came up to the right side of her face. It was tipped by a black piece that like made Electra think of a pirate's eye patch.

Wrench looked up then, but instead of making some disparaging comment on his beautician's fashion sense, that madden gleam had returned to her brown eyes.

"Vee is helping me with a side project."

"Side project?" Electra echoed, narrowing his eyes.

Wrench nodded, grinning. "I'll show you." She put her fingers to her mouth and emitted a whistle.

"You sound like a steamer," Electra grimaced as Wrench waved the freezer truck over. He quickly glanced toward the committee members to make sure they had not heard his repair truck's _faux pas_. He would sooner fire Wrench than to lose face in front of them.

Volta quickly obeyed, and Electra soon got a whiff of the perfume she wore to hide her diesel fumes: a floral fragrance which always managed to tickle his nose in a way he did not entirely disapprove of. The freezer gave Electra a deep nod in greeting, much like a bow.

That was another item in her favor, he thought briefly. Though a mere refrigerator car, she conducted herself with a kind of elegance usually seen by luxury cars, though he had no clue where she had learned it. He also did not know why a diesel truck would have a name like "Volta" when freight trains were powered by diesel engines in this country, but Electra did not care enough to ask a servant for her backstory.

"You're certainly in your element today, Vee," Wrench observed, nodding to the frosted landscape around them.

"Yes, is this a race track or an ice rink?" Electra said dryly, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "What is she wearing, Wrench? I don't pay you to mess around."

"Technically, I do most of it off the clock," the repair truck replied, unabashed. She pointed to the eye piece. "My great-grandmother had been a dynamometer car — that's a wagon that measures an engine's performance," she added at Electra's quirked brow. "Granted, Granny Di worked with steam engines, but I think I can adapt the basic premise to modern usage. Vee's been measuring the switch engines in the yard for me, and their statistics show up on the eyepiece."

Wrench tented her fingers, and Electra half-expected her to give a maniacal laugh. "Patent pending."

Electra glanced at the freezer. "You're really letting her drag you into this?"

Volta's blue eyes met his, and her mouth twitched into a brief smile which might have been playful. "I was bored."

"Have you considered watching paint dry as an alternative?" he cracked.

That hint of a smile appeared again. "That _does_ sound more enjoyable."

Wrench ignored their jabs. "It should be easy enough to put on Lacey and have her measure you during practice races," the repair truck finished, folding her arms as she gave a self-satisfied smile.

Electra tried to imagine that ridiculous headset snaked around Lacey's curls. He would be laughed off the track. "Keep trying, Wrench."

The repair truck just shrugged. "That's what tests are for. As long as I have my willing victim here, I'm confident I can start selling it soon."

"Always happy to help," Volta said dryly.

Wrench turned to her. "I have another idea of incorporating nitrous oxide," she said eagerly. "Wanna be my guinea pig?"

Volta quirked her brow. "The stuff they put in cans of whip cream?"

"It's used for more than just your basic aerosol can," Wrench replied with a smirk before she turned back to Electra. "So, do you think your coach will be up to a little remodeling?"

"You can ask her yourself — if she ever shows up," Electra returned, looking in vain for the returning figure of Purse and the pink Pullman.

As he scanned the snowy horizon, he found himself frowning at Wrench's insinuation that that airhead could be "his" coach. Lacey was only his partner, not his lover. The committee of electrics who had commissioned his existence had also assigned the giggling vacuous carriage to be his partner in the races. Like the cars coupled to Electra's siblings, Lacey was outfitted with special skates to insure that her locomotive would go as fast as possible, and she wore the dress of a luxury car, which would look excellent in the newspapers should Electra be the one to beat Greaseball. Plus she was the niece of one of the committee members. As such, if Electra wanted access to his trust fund, it behooved him to race with her, but he had little to do with her off the track. Wrench knew that perfectly well.

Meanwhile, the repair truck glanced at Volta. "Passenger cars, am I right?" she cracked.

Volta nodded, and Electra saw something like distaste cross her pretty face, causing her petite nose to wrinkle.

"Freight trucks are better racers, I've found," she said, tossing her head as if she had a habit of flipping back the long strands of black hair which Electra knew she had hidden under her cowl. "They can take a punch much better — and can throw them better," she added, flexing her perfectly manicured fingers.

"I'll keep that in mind," Electra replied, checking his computer's clock. Only seven minutes until the race. If Lacey did not show up, Electra would not be able to compete — and he would not have a chance to leave Amber in his snowy dust.

As if in response, Electra heard a smug voice call out, "Lexi!"

Electra stiffened and turned his head to see the red figure of Amber approaching.

* * *

Volta quickly excused herself, stepping back over to the other servants. Electra barely noticed as he glared at the crimson engine. Like Electra and the other prototypes, Amber's frame resembled a sleek jumpsuit with pieces of metal that covered his torso and limbs like armor, but his body was painted red. Behind Amber — Electra gritted his teeth — rode a single mauve coach: Barbara the barbershop-lounge car.

Amber and the stylist skidded to a stop, their blade-like skates spraying ice, and Krupp and Wrench barely managed to step in front of Electra in time to receive the full blast.

"Lovely morning, isn't it, Lex?" Amber flashed his white teeth in a fake smile.

"If we were performing _Snoopy on Ice_ maybe," Electra replied, waving his two components aside even as he held his brother's gaze. He refused to look weak in front of Amber.

The crimson engine giggled. "I think it's so refreshing. Especially since my repair truck has upgraded my shoes," he added, extending his leg to show off his red foot as if it were Dorothy's ruby slipper. "Bolt is a dream with his toolbox."

Wrench leaned forward then, examining the blades. "Which tool did he install that with?" she said, her brow furrowed with studious calculation.

Amber momentarily faltered. "Why?"

Wrench gave him a smirk. "No reason."

Electra shot her an approving look as Amber's mouth twitched. No doubt as soon as he left, the red prototype would be zipping back to Bolt to double-check every last rivet. Hopefully, that paranoia might last through the race.

Amber flicked a speck of snow off his shiny frame, and the upstart diva seemed to be trying to save face.

"Speaking of upgrades, do you like the new hair which Babs made for me, Lexi?" he asked with fake camaraderie, waving a pretentious hand toward his wig. The sides of his head appeared shaved to a thin layer of black fuzz, and his head was topped by his normal curls, which were now dyed red to match his chassis. "Isn't she just the _best_?"

"I think she's a few seasons behind," Electra leered, eyeing the brunette carriage who did not even have the grace to look ashamed in his presence. Even when she had been on Electra's team, she had not known her place. She had complained that the silver livery was not cute enough, and she did not like that the cowl hid her hair. Even when Electra had had Purse explain to her that the committee wished for the staff to wear the uniforms, she had tried to toe the line by arriving at one of the banquets with her hair styled. Soon after that, Amber had snatched her away.

Meanwhile, Barbara shrugged, unconcerned with his criticism. "Amby obviously has all the taste in the family," the purple Pullman said. "And manners. How do you like having a freight truck shampoo your wigs?"

"At least Volta knows who signs her paychecks," Electra retorted.

Amber stepped in front of the combine coach, almost protectively, and gave Electra a smug look.

"At least my hair doesn't smell like oil fumes when Babs is done," he snickered, turning his head toward where Volta now stood with Electra's other servants. "But who could follow up an act like my new lounge car?"

However, Electra's electronic memory could vividly recall the look on Amber's face when Electra had rode in sporting his new yellow Mohawk, and so he chose not to accept the bait, rather turning his gaze to the traitorous Pullman.

"Are you getting lax with your staff, Amber?" Electra mocked, crinkling his nose. "Or are you implementing Casual Friday among the help now? If so, someone desperately needs fashion tips," he added, turning a critical eye at the purple ensemble Barbara wore.

Instead of the metallic uniform she had worn under Electra's employ, the Pullman lounge was now garbed in a purple piece that mimicked a beautician's smock with silver rivets for buttons but the mauve skirt came out to cover an underskirt of ruffles. Electra noted that atop the skirt sat a metal loop just above the hem which was attached to her waist by a series of straps which resembled spokes on a wheel — the newest fad among coaches, which did not come cheap. Instead of a cowl, her brunette hair was allowed to hang from a ponytail topped with a hairpiece which resembled the handles on scissors.

"Babsy dresses to please me," Amber replied smugly. "After all, she's racing with me today."

Electra barked a laugh. "You're racing with servants now? Pathetic."

Barbara only moved closer to Amber. "I don't work for Amby," the purple Pullman said with a purr, laying her brunette head against her engine's red shoulder.

So, that was the reason for her betrayal. Electra tossed his head back, pretending not to care.

"Amber, you have really sunk to a new low," he mocked. "What about that dining car the committee gave you?"

Amber gave an indifferent shrug. "The committee wants one of us to beat Greaseball. They don't think it's right for the same diesel to beat electric engines year after year. Once I told them that Babs helps me go faster, they practically begged me to uncouple Olive." He then smirked. "So, where's _your_ coach, Lex?"

That caught Electra with a jolt. He looked away without meaning to and silently cursed himself for the involuntary action even as he adopted a bored expression.

"She met a delay, but she'll be here soon."

"That's good," the red engine said sweetly. "Not that she could compare to my Babs. My cute combine car here also carries baggage, you know, and she has lots of strength in her lovely arms." Amber turned to his new lover. "You never liked Lacey, did you, sweetie? At least now you can do something about it."

Barbara smiled coyly in reply.

Before Electra could do more than stiffen at the veiled threat, Amber turned back to the yellow locomotive. "You know, I was just talking to Davey," he said, nodding to Davenport, their sister who wore blue paint, "and I told her how I'm gonna celebrate winning the championship and beating that Greaseball."

" _If_ you get to the championship," Electra replied coldly.

Amber ignored him. "I hired a quaint little boxcar, Julie 4, to be my brand new fireworks truck. When I do my lap of honor, she'll set off fireworks that will say, 'Amber rules,' in the sky." He held up his hands as if he were framing the perfect shot.

Electra immediately pretended to examine his fingernails, feigning disinterest — all the while wishing he had thought of that plan first. "Fireworks are fine and all, Amber, but can it compare to the bang of my new dynamite truck?"

"Planning to blow up Greaseball if you can't beat him?" Amber sneered. He suddenly looked over his shoulder, glancing back at the silver trucks waiting for him, and said, "It's been nice chatting, Lexi boy, but I need to get back to my dear little components. They just pine for me when I leave them too long." With that Amber turned on his blade and pulled Barbara back to the four metallic cars with large red A's on their belts.

Once Amber was out of earshot, Wrench shot a look at Electra. "Dynamite truck?"

"How do you think Joule would feel about carrying explosives?"

Wrench studied him for a long moment before returning to her clipboard. "Use TNT. It's not shock sensitive."

"I'll still call it dynamite," Electra replied, shooting another dirty look toward the red slimeball.

"Pay no attention to that fop, Electra," Krupp said wisely, dusting off a bit of the snow from Electra's shoulder which he and Wrench hadn't blocked. "He's just trying to get inside your head. He knows you can beat him."

"Of course I can," Electra snapped, harsher than he meant. Krupp was a good employee and had been among the rolling stock present when Electra had first opened his eyes. "He wouldn't even look twice at Barbara if she hadn't belonged to me."

Electra knew he should not take his brother's braggadocio so seriously — and yet Amber did everything in his power to outshine the others, including making unapproved adjustments to his staff. The six prototypes had all started with three components to serve, guide and monitor them in their athletic training. However, just two weeks ago Amber had revealed that he had divided his computer even further and had taken a fourth component: Prada the wardrobe truck, an electrified baggage car who doubled as his personal shopper. Amber boasted that transferring programs into Prada had freed up his processors. This freedom for his mental functions allowed him to perform ten times faster on the race track, or so he claimed.

Not to be outdone, Electra was now in the process of computerizing his newest truck, Joule, but a part of him still felt like a copycat for doing it. He just needed a way to prove his obvious superiority over Amber and impress the committee enough to win the spot to challenge Greaseball in the upcoming race.

Electra was suddenly pulled out of his thoughts when he heard Krupp say, "Here they are."

The locomotive turned and saw the silver form of Purse coming over the hill with the pink puff which could only be Lacey the sleeping car.

About time.

"By the pricking of my thumb, something vapid this way comes," Electra muttered under his breath, but it was then that he saw something was wrong.

Lacey certainly lived up to her name. At her best times the carriage was a curly-haired woman who wore a pink skirt made of enough frills and lace that made her resemble a powder puff, and, like Barbara, a metal wheel-like hoop topped her skirt. Now, however, her ruffles were crumpled and damp with snow, her blonde curls askew, the tiny pink pillow she wore as a corsage on her wrist torn, and, as she came close, hanging onto Purse's armored shoulders, Electra could see that she dragged behind the money truck on one wobbly leg.

Because her other pink foot looked in danger of falling off.

Wrench started forward, leaping over the guardrail, with Krupp close behind, still clutching Electra's designer racing helmet. As Electra started off after the two trucks, Purse guided Lacey to a nearby latticed structure to sit, and Wrench dropped to her knees to examine the damaged limb. Lacey let out a shriek of pain as the repair truck touched her leg and grabbed Purse's arm as if he were a lifeline.

"What happened?" Electra demanded, braking beside the four cars.

"I—I fell," Lacey wailed. Her fair face had gone pale, and her cheeks were drenched in tears and snow.

"She derailed on the trestle by the coach yard," Purse clarified. "I thought it would be quicker to bring her here to Wrench than the repair shop."

Electra's stomach tightened, but not out of concern for Lacey. Rather he could not help but be very aware of what this meant for him.

"Can you race?" he demanded.

Lacey just let out a sob and buried her tear-stained face against Purse. The money truck awkwardly patted her blonde head.

"There, there," he said as if he had no clue what else to say.

Electra turned to Wrench, whose face was set with that familiar look of a mechanic's concentration.

"I can repair your coach," she said before he could ask, "but it'll take about fifteen minutes."

Electra's arm jerked with a sudden burst of electricity. " _Fifteen_?!" he screeched.

"You can't rush genius, sweetheart," the repair truck retorted. Suddenly, she raised her head, addressing Lacey. "You know, since you need to be repaired anyway, this will would be a great opportunity to try out my new experiment."

The sleeper's eyes widened in alarm. "Electra!" she wailed.

"Wrench, don't scare her," Electra ordered automatically, but inwardly his cooling fans began to whirl as his computer analyzed this new situation. He needed a car, fast, or he would be out of the first practice race, and that would impress no one. Worst of all, Amber would not let him forget it, and there was no way Electra would give that smug fop any leverage over him.

He turned to Purse. "Find me someone in the coach yard who can race. Fast."

Purse touched his brim with his free hand, but Lacey clung tighter to him, squeezing her tear-filled eyes shut as Wrench jiggled her loose foot.

"Relax. I'm disconnecting your pain sensors right now," Wrench told her. Suddenly, she stopped. "Hey, I have an idea," she said, looking up toward Electra. "Why not take Volta?"

Electra glared at her. He was in no mood for jokes.

"Race with the help?"

"I'll pretend I didn't hear you say that," she said, getting to her blades. She jerked a thumb toward the three other servants who were watching with interest, though none of them moved closer. "Vee said she used to race on her old line, and it's just for one practice race. I should have Lacey done when you come back."

"A diesel truck?" Electra responded flatly. As if he would ever degrade himself so. Especially in front of the committee.

Wrench gave him a dry look. "Or you can sit on the sidelines and watch Amber."

That was all the convincing he needed. He turned away.

"One of you, go tell her she's been honored," he said tightly, gliding away. He would not sully his lips by asking a diesel-powered servant for aid.

* * *

Electra stood stiffly with his racing helmet as Volta neared, bringing with her that cloud of perfume which was more irritating than usual. He was sure he detected a hint of her oil fumes now. Her cool face was proud and professional, but Electra thought he saw a trace of shyness as she bowed her head in respect and accepted his gray couplings with that first-class grace. Without a word he pulled her over to the starting line just in time to see the fifteen-year-old electric engine who was acting as track marshal motion for the racers to take their positions.

Electra was vividly aware of the three female locomotives nudging each other and whispering, and he heard Amber's snicker as the yellow engine hauled Volta to the front — the freezer was the only silver truck among the technicolor rainbow of the prototypes and their partners. Electra tried not to look at any of the committee members in the audience as he took his place. He stood in the front row with Amber and Davenport since the three of them had had the best times in their last race while Watson, Edison and Faraday stood behind.

As he slipped on his helmet (a gray accessory with an opening on top for his yellow Mohawk), Electra felt Volta adjust her grip on his gray couplings, and he did not know which was colder, the snow or her slim fingers.

"Who's racing with servants now?" Amber mocked at his side. "At least I don't have a diesel truck slowing me down."

"Some trains just can't get the breaks, Amby," Barbara tittered behind him.

Electra ignored them both and took a step to the side, distancing himself from the repulsive racer and the back-stabbing carriage.

To Electra's surprise, he heard a cold, soft voice say behind him, "He's a shame to electric engines."

He turned, and through the hole in his helmet he saw anger etched across Volta's pretty face.

"He doesn't care about electricity at all," she said. "He will disgrace everyone if he wins the championship."

Electra felt himself smile. "I knew there was something I liked about you."

Her blue eyes shot to him in surprise — and promptly lowered, an embarrassed smile on her framed face.

She looked kinda cute like that, he observed, but before he could dwell on it too much, the electric track marshal skated in front of them then, heading to the side with a green flag.

"Racers, ready!" he ordered, holding up the banner.

The engines crouched into position, and their partners followed suit.

With a verdant flash, the flag dropped.

The six engines promptly shot forward like multi-colored rockets, following the path marked by the electric lines above. Within minutes Amber and Electra were the early leaders, sending yellow sparks flying as the pantographs atop their helmets slid along the overhanging wires. Electra saw Amber shoot him a surprised look through the hole of his helmet, but Electra smirked. Amber was not the only one who had made upgrades to his skates.

Volta clung to him, and he could not help noticing that she seemed to move with him around corners much better than Lacey did. He even felt her swing a punch at his orange-clad sister, Faraday, and her cafe car when they strayed too close — something the pink Pullman would not have tried.

Sprays of snow danced as their skates cut through the ice like knives, zipping down the track and leaning into curves. Electra managed to keep even with Amber, but he soon heard another crackle of electricity closing in behind. A quick look over his shoulder awarded him with a flash of blue, and his sister, Davenport, maneuvered around him, pulling up to Electra's other side.

Immediately, Electra swung his arm.

Davenport ducked and responded in kind, landing a blow against Electra's torso. None of the prototypes had any qualms of attacking their siblings, male or female. It was encouraged by the committee — to insure that they would be prepared to grapple with Greaseball, who would not pull any of his punches.

Davenport barked a mocking laugh as she began to gain the lead — and suddenly there came a clank of crashing metal behind them followed by a cry of pain. Davenport immediately spun around and doubled back, and as Electra rounded the bend, he saw Davenport snatching at the arm of Seymour, her observation car. Electra realized that the bespectacled coach had been forcibly disconnected from her.

"Nice work," Electra called over his shoulder to the freezer.

"Child's play," he heard her reply. Her grip tightened on his couplings.

Amidst the momentary distraction, Amber and Barbara had streaked ahead, and Electra hurriedly picked up the pace. The wind roared against him as if trying to shove him back, but Electra only pushed harder, focusing his sights on the track ahead.

Watson, his other brother, pulled into Electra's line of vision on the other side of Amber and Barbara. Electra waited, timing his next move — but before he could strike, Barbara spun, one hand still clutching Amber's couplings. Electra watched her fist swing upward and collide with Watson's jaw with all the strength her baggage compartment had given her.

Watson staggered and fell behind, and Electra heard the sudden cries of Edison and Faraday and their partners — along with the undeniable sounds of a six-vehicle pileup.

Electra focused ahead. It was just him, Amber, and Davenport now. The three prototypes and their partners threw punches and dodged blows, but none could get the drop on any of the other rolling stock.

Suddenly, Electra looked ahead and spotted the upcoming narrow trestle over a frozen river, wide enough for only one engine at a time. He leaned forward as far he could without breaking the connection to the electric lines above him and picked up his speed. Amber and Davenport did the same.

They were yards away from the narrow track when Amber suddenly shouted, "Now, Babs!"

Immediately, Electra heard Davenport's observation car yelp along with the undeniable sound of a punch colliding against metal, but before he could react, Amber's red shoulder had slammed into him. Electra instinctively grabbed the other man's arm. His first thought was to swing him into the nearby railing, but suddenly he heard Barbara yowl in pain, and he heard another punch. Something stumbled behind them, and Electra barely released Amber in time before the crimson locomotive tripped.

Electra did not pause. He zoomed right over the trestle with his freezer clutching his holdings, and he heard Davenport swear something as she zipped after him.

He saw the track marshal with the checkered flag, and he sailed across the finish line.

* * *

Electra glided to the side, removing his helmet, as the track marshal called out, "Take ten, everyone! Reconvene at the lake course!"

Electra made an elegant flourish as the spectators — including the committee members — broke into applause, flashing his most gorgeous smile, but at a puerile part of him wanted to punch the air and whoop over his triumph.

Davenport and Seymour glided back to the blue engine's components. A murmur arose in the crowd, and Electra turned to see the dingy incomplete rainbow of Watson, Faraday, and Edison and their respective partners as switchers pulled them toward the repair trucks. He quickly adopted a look of sympathy for the public to see, but inwardly his elation did not diminish an iota.

He felt Volta release her grip, and he turned. She gave him a polite nod, still respectful, but even so he thought he saw a proud gleam in her blue eyes, like a lioness who had made a grand kill.

It brought a smile to his face. He tucked his helmet under his arm.

"Thank you, Volta," he said, giving her a formal nod.

"Just doing my duty, Mr. Electra," she replied, nodding herself. Electra could not help noticing that her smooth elegance made her look more like a queen despite her servant garb.

Before he could reflect too much on it, Electra caught a movement of red and purple then, and he turned his head to see Amber and Barbara sulking toward Amber's waiting components. Both shot Electra and Volta looks which could have been lethal weapons.

Electra smirked. "I hope you can get your deposit back on that fireworks truck," he called, giving a mocking wave to rub salt into the wound.

Amber made a rude gesture and kept skating.

Electra heard a whoop then, and he turned to see his silver components racing toward him, Wrench in the lead.

"That was awesome, Electra!" she gave in greeting.

"Naturally," Electra said, smoothing back his wig. He was pleased to discover that not a hair had fallen out of place inside his helmet. Yet another triumphant for Volta.

Krupp and Purse also murmured their praises, and Electra could hear their component pieces whirling as they ran their own analyses on him. Wrench turned to Volta, who had stepped away from the engine to allow room for her superiors, and the normally reserved repair truck wore a wicked smirk.

"I can't believe you did that to Barbara."

"Did what?" Electra asked, waving Krupp and Purse away, and he glanced at the freezer, who now had a small smirk of her own on her elegant lips.

"Volta grabbed her hair right before she punched her," Wrench snickered. "I should have brought the video camera. I could have made a fortune sending it to _America's Funniest Home Videos_."

"I said freight trucks can deliver a punch better than coaches," Volta replied, making no pretense at modesty.

Electra felt a surge of admiration for her. The prototypes were encouraged to brawl among themselves, but their partners were picked for their beauty and speed. Lacey was a prime example. If the sleeper had gone against Barbara, she would have been at the lounge car's mercy since Electra doubted she had the natural ruthlessness to pull another woman's hair. The pink Pullman's dainty arms were built for passengers, not cargo.

Electra found his eyes trailing across the well-toned muscles of his freezer truck — but he soon snapped himself out of his reverie when he heard Wrench ask: "You switched on the headset, right?"

Volta tapped the eyepiece. "But of course."

Wrench then turned to Electra, and he could read _Told you so_ on her face as clearly as if it had been printed.

"I'm still tinkering with your coach," said Wrench, "but she should be ready for the next one."

"Wonderful," Electra drawled, resisting the urge to tell Wrench not to refer to that powder puff as his coach — and he felt that sense of triumphant diminish, like a birthday candle doused by a hurricane. After a stunning victory, he would have to pair up with the airhead again.

"Better hydrate now," the repair truck said wisely, stepping away. "You too, Volta," she added, rolling over to the railing to exit the track.

Electra found himself grinning down at the slim freezer — though he quickly adopted a more professional expression. "Shall we?"

Volta nodded, and he gestured for her to take his couplings again, which she obeyed. He started toward where his diner and photographer stood — the baggage car was snapping photos even then — and Electra noticed Krupp and Purse had fallen in line behind him.

For some reason, Electra did not want either man following him right then, and he waved for them to step back. The trucks nodded their obedience, though Electra saw them exchange glances.

Lens the photographer lowered his camera as Electra gestured for him to leave. Ambrosia the dining car quickly handed her locomotive a water bottle and power bar which she had ready for him, and Electra jerked his thumb toward Volta, wordlessly ordering for Ambrosia to tend to the truck as well. Ambrosia obeyed, and Electra thanked her with a nod of approval and pulled his stylist to the side.

As he twisted off the top of the bottle, leaning against the railing, he looked down at the freezer, who took small, lady-like sips. He wondered again where a freight truck had learned her gentility.

"How does racing with diesels compare to racing with electrics?" he asked.

She turned her cowl head, blinking once. "I never raced with diesels."

He quirked an elegant eyebrow. "Aren't you freight?"

"Yes, but Conrail had electric freight trains," she replied, and Electra detected a note of amusement.

For a moment Electra wondered how she sounded when she laughed — but he shook that thought off.

"Had?" he repeated. The name Conrail sounded familiar, but before he could open the right memory file, he saw the gleam vanished from her blue eyes as quickly as it had appeared.

"They're gone now," she said, looking at her water bottle. "My father raced back in the day. Thundersnow, the electric racing champion," she smiled wryly, holding up her hands like a showman. "You remind me of him, the way you move in a race," she added, and he saw admiration in her blue eyes.

"I... didn't know that."

Volta shrugged a metallic shoulder. "You didn't ask."

No, he had not. Outside of his components, who were literal pieces of him, he did not fraternize with his employees. "Familiarity breeds contempt," after all. He hardly talked to Volta when he visited her paint shop. Often when he would come in, she would be listening to some cassette tape with a harp cover of "Toccoa and Fugue in D Minor" or a Mozart opera, sometimes with her long black hair hanging loose — which did not look half bad, he thought as he opened a memory file — but at the sight of him, Volta would switch her tape player to radio mode and put on his favorite station. Then they would spend their session in silence, occasionally making a comment about the other's work.

Electra had preferred her professionalism over Barbara's incessant chatter, but now a part of him began to wonder about the truck standing in front of him. Almost like she was a puzzle that he felt tempted to solve — though that was ludicrous to feel toward someone on his payroll.

...Yet that did not stop him from asking, "Does your father still race?"

Volta's lips twitched. "No." Her gaze lowered, but he thought he saw a hint of heat in her blue eyes now. "Conrail decided it would stay in the black if it got rid of its electric engines and just used diesels."

Electra furrowed his brow. "Even though it costs more to fuel a diesel?"

Volta jerked a nod. "Father went before the board. He even tried to set up a race between him and the fastest diesel to prove that he was better, but they wouldn't listen. After that, he was stored in a shed, just stuck in one yard. Not even a museum piece." Her manicured hand tightened on her water bottle. "Things turned around for him when Amtrak took over. Now he pulls passenger trains." Electra heard the distaste in her voice, even as she obviously tried to conceal it.

She suddenly raised her head to look at him. "He supports what the electric committee is doing here with the Engines of the Future," she said. Her ice-like eyes seemed to soften, if only a fraction. "I would rather see you win against Greaseball than Amber."

"I plan to win," he replied. He was used to admiration in his eight months of life. Widows waved to him as their soon-to-be superstar passed. Coaches swooned, and trucks threw themselves at him to gain his favor. Once he turned on his magnetism, no one could ignore him. Yet as he looked at the glimmers of adoration in her pretty blue eyes, something unfamiliar stirred inside him. He was not quite sure what it was, but it made him ask, "Is your mother a freezer?"

"Boxcar," answered the truck. "Though my father's mother was an ice bunker." Her hand slid over her chest — right over the opening for her diesel fuel. "Amazing how far technology has come."

"And it'll keep going farther, thanks to me," Electra answered.

Her mouth twitched into a smile, much wider than he had seen before.

That explained why a diesel truck would have a name like Volta, he noted. He had a sudden image fleet across his mind of an athletic-looking locomotive standing in front of a row of newborn trucks and deciding that the one with the oil tank was worthy enough to call his daughter. Krupp had said that diesel trucks were a necessary evil, and yet Thundersnow must have seen something in this freezer that no one else had.

His dark eyes trailed over her face. She was very pretty, he noted once again, and she was ten times the stylist that Barbara ever was. He had little to disapprove regarding her job performance, and he kind of liked the way her cold hands felt against his skin when he would come into her paint shop after a hard day of training. Even that perfume which did not completely conceal her diesel fumes was strangely alluring whenever she came close…

"Are you ready for the race?" a voice suddenly asked.

Electra jolted and glared at the intruder. "Don't do that, Wrench," he snapped.

Wrench pressed her palms together. "A thousand pardons, sahib." She ignored the scowl the locomotive shot her and jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. "Your coach will be ready in time for the next race."

Electra resisted the urge to remind her that Lacey was not his coach and instead glanced at the freezer. He thought of how she had caused Amber and Barbara to taste the snow-covered track — a memory he would not erase any time soon — and he felt a new resolve.

"Actually," he said, expertly adapting a bored expression, "I think I'll take Volta again."

Both trucks looked surprised.

"Really?" Volta blinked.

Electra drew himself up, still feigning disinterest. "Lacey may be the niece of one of the committee members, but her uncle will not approve if she's damaged again so soon. Since I know Volta is durable, it's to my advantage to take her. Just for now," he added. He stepped away from the railing. "Well, are you coming?"

Volta recovered her composure, and she gracefully accepted his couplings, closing her icy fingers around the gray loops — and despite the cold around him, Electra felt warmth creep into his wires at her touch.

He quickly ignored it.

* * *

When Electra left the track in the evening to return to his mansion, he had a spring in his skates despite the several cars he pulled behind him. With Volta on his couplings, he had won all of the practice trials. The coaches were no match for the icy Amazon as her slim, yet muscular, arms swung like hammers into joints, faces, and abdomens. In the last race Volta had even sent Barbara into the railing, and the coach had tumbled over into the snow. Amber was forced to stop to collect her.

Electra smirked to himself as he glided past semaphores and under gantries. If he kept up this performance, there was no way his brother would come close to becoming the superstar challenger.

As he reached the opulent structure with its many stalls with doors that faced outwards like the roundhouses of the steam age, the cars unhitched. Electra waved a hand for them to go about their duties, and the trucks obeyed; Purse, Ambrosia, and Lens disappeared through their respective doors while Wrench sauntered to her own workshop.

"Just think about that nitrous oxide idea, Lacey," she said over her shoulder.

The blonde sleeper furrowed her brow. "Isn't that the stuff they use in laughing gas?"

Wrench shook her head. "I am unappreciated in my time," she declared before slipping into her shop.

Krupp remained to take Lacey home, but the pink sleeper turned her big, blue eyes toward Electra with a look of self-reproach.

"I'm so sorry, Lex," she said. "I almost made you lose today."

Electra shrugged. "It all worked out in the end." And how.

As Lacey hitched up to Krupp, Electra turned to his remaining car.

Volta did not avert her gaze. "You raced well today," she said, and he thought he heard a hint of warmth in her voice.

He dismissed that thought quickly. "It's a gift," he replied, shrugging it off, and stepped toward her paint shop at the end of the opulent row. Volta followed closely.

They both stepped into the room that served as her salon. At the back wall stood a seat for him in front of a mirror surrounded by her tools and his collection of fabulous wigs. He usually did not pay attention to any of the other details in the room, but now, for some reason, he took note of the paintings she had collected to furbish the walls. A part of him wondered what prompted her to choose those pieces, but he tried to squelch those questions as he silently sat.

Within minutes she restored the racing wig to the featureless mannequin head and set his daily hair (a black piece with yellow lightning bolts) upon his elegant head. She gave it a quick brush and stepped back, bowing her head.

He stood to leave, and as he reached the door, he had an impulse he very rarely felt — he turned to say good-bye. However, the word died upon his lips as he caught sight of Volta. She had already stepped toward the little area that served as her room, and through the open door he saw her push back her reflective cowl, revealing a ponytail with loose strands of black hair. She tugged the band out, loosening a cascade of pretty tresses, and began to run a comb through the raven strands.

Electra had ample time to notice how the color complemented her pale skin tone — and he felt his wires respond to the vision before him.

"Hey," he called to her, causing her to jump. "You really should keep your hair covered until you're off duty."

Volta quickly pulled her hair back into its ponytail, stuffing it into the cowl. "Sorry, I thought I was," she apologized. "I didn't mean to be unprofessional."

"Try not to forget." With that, he spun on one skate and headed toward his own quarters.

He drew in a deep breath to calm the wires which pulsated with power. He had seen Volta with her hair down before, but he had never...

 _She's a servant with a diesel tank_ , he told himself as he charged over the icy tracks, faster than normal. He had always considered himself open minded when it came to romantic partners, but he still had his standards. A man of his power and fortune deserved no lower than an 8, and Volta's oil generator brought her down to a 6.

Even if her cool hands did feel pleasant against his warm skin.

He was in the process of deleting those unwanted thoughts when he caught sight of Wrench skating toward him, a smirk on her face. She held up a stack of papers in her hand.

"The results from the dynamometer," she grinned. "It works!"

"So publish already," Electra drawled.

"I know you're being sarcastic, but I'll pretend you can actually recognize genius, darling," she replied. "I think you'll change your tune once you hear how well the dynamometer says you did."

That got his attention, but he pretended to study his manicured nails — Volta really had done a good job on them the other day.

"And what did the little toy say?" he asked.

Wrench pointed to a number on the read out. "You actually increased your speed by fifteen percent."

Electra looked up. "I did?"

Wrench jerked a nod. "Usually, when you race with Lacey, she's hooked up to your head-end power to heat or cool her cabin. Since Volta doesn't need H.E.P., your computer could run just a little faster with less programs running. Enough to make a difference." Her grin widened a little. "It's good thing somebody told you to take her, huh?"

"Yes, yes. You're earning your Christmas bonus," he said dismissively, waving his hand, but inwardly he felt a surge of triumph. Amber would never think to tell his partner not to use the H.E.P. in winter. Even if he dumped Barbara, he would probably find another coach, and he would never know why Electra would always be better than him.

The young engine felt a smirk tug at his elegant lips. Greaseball the reigning champion always raced with Dinah the dining car, and she would probably need to heat up her internal compartments during the race in March. Knowing that would give Electra a tactical advantage should he get to face him — which he would, he silently vowed yet again.

He barely noticed that Wrench was still talking, but his ears suddenly perked as she said, "...And thanks to all the hair-pulling today, I heard that the committee is thinking about making all the partners wear cowls." She snickered. "I can't _wait_ to see how Barbara handles that."

Electra glanced over his shoulder toward the paint shop. He thought again of his repeated victories and Amber's consecutive humiliations. Something he would not have been able to pull off with a regular coach. He could still feel Volta moving in sync behind him, expertly following his motions and not throwing him off even when she released his couplings to attack. True, Lacey was the niece of a committee member, but the committee had already poured astronomical figures into this project to breed a superstar challenger to take on Greaseball. Surely, they would support a superstar who had the best partner — even if said superstar had to break from convention to win.

Electra turned back to Wrench. "Perhaps," he said, surprised that he was even saying it, "I'll keep using Volta."

To his surprise, her brow furrowed. "Do you think that's wise?"

Electra looked at her, frowning. " _You're_ the one who wanted me to race with her."

"It's not that, dummy," she retorted. "She's a nice kid, but what are you going to tell the committee?"

Electra shrugged. "If Amber could replace his diner with Barbara because she made him go faster, why can't I use Volta? This is all about winning. The committee commissioned us to bring back electricity, so wouldn't that include the electric freight lines as well?"

"Maybe if you were sure to word it that way," Wrench conceded with a nod. "I do like having you around Electra. My paycheck has more zeros than what the other prototypes pay their mechanics."

Electra shook his head at her. "It's not like I'm planning to make her a component you know."

...Although, he suddenly realized, if Amber said he performed better with four components, what could Electra do if he had five?

 _Thoughts for the future_ , he told himself.

Wrench patted the edges of the read-out to make the papers align before she tucked them under her muscular arm.

"Then have fun with your new coach, darling," she said with a departing wave, maneuvering around him to head the stall that acted as an employee lounge.

Electra looked over his shoulder at the door of the paint shop once again. At least Volta had brains as well as physical power. If she was his ticket to beat Greaseball and to become the most famous of all electrics, then he was willing to take her on as his permanent partner. If all the other racers' coaches were to wear cowls and silver like the components, then no one could ridicule him for taking her when she looked like all the other cars. None of the other prototypes knew about the H.E.P. weakness, and so Electra would always have that edge over them — and he would continue beating them all until the committee picked him to represent electricity, regardless of what truck he pulled.

He was willing to risk it.

 _And Volta has nice eyes_ , something in his computer pointed out, but he immediately deleted that thought.

With one last touch to smooth back his hair, Electra headed to his quarters.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

>  _So, what the deal with the nitrous oxide stuff?_ Frank Kenz, the designer, had put NO2 on Volta's costume. That's the molecular structure for nitrogen dioxide, which is a toxic compound. Why would Electra want that? I think Kenz got that mixed up with nitrous oxide (N2O), which is used in motor-car racing. Since this was before Google, we can handwave it away. In-universe, why would Volta or Electra agree to nitrous oxide when electric engines don't carry combustible engines? Maybe Wrench had something to do with that.
> 
>  _Barbershop-lounge car?_ Yes, they existed. They were built by the Pullman Company, and a number of railroads had them. (The Southern Pacific had at least six.) Some even had a compartment for baggage. I hope you guys have learned by now that I don't make that kind of stuff up. XD
> 
>  _Dynamite vs TNT?_ If you look at the promo photos, Joule is still called a dynamite truck, but Kenz put the letters TNT on her costume. While similar, dynamite and TNT are distinctive. If you drop it and it explodes, it's dynamite because dynamite is shock sensitive — so all those times in the regular show with roller skates when Electra shoots electricity at Joule to make her fall down, it was probably not the wisest move. Unless she's just carrying TNT there too. (Good thing Joule is a TOY dynamite truck, amirite?)


End file.
